


we'll no further

by elizajane



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, Morning After, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Not Canon Compliant, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9241499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: The urgency of the night before has given way to mutual certainty that this is neither the first time, nor the last.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bid Them All Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9137185) by [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl). 



> My wife wrote the first piece of this story, and thus planted the seeds of this scene in my head. And now I owe her for yet another beautiful fanfic universe. She is my ever-patient beta and all remaining flaws are my own.

Richard sleeps curled on his side with elbows and knees pulled tight, defending himself from the surrounding night. Camille smiles to herself as she skims a lazy hand down his ribs to the slight curve of his hip, then along the back of his thigh to the warmth behind his knee. In the dim almost-light of early morning she burrows in against his back beneath the duvet and lets herself sink into the rhythm of his quiet, even breathing.

She breaths with him, in…then out…then in…enjoying the way her breasts, in the thin cloth of a borrowed t-shirt, press firm beneath his shoulder blades. She can still feel his lips, there, pressed warm and disbelieving against her flesh, his tongue and teeth teasing at the nipple as she digs her fingers into his shoulders: silent encouragement.

She rubs her nose against the back of his neck, where the collar of his flannel pyjama shirt brushes the ends of his close-cropped hair, then sucks a small kiss against the softness behind his ear. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but still. She will sit across from him at the conference table today knowing where her lips have been, no longer wondering what he is thinking when he casts a hurried glance in her direction.

She drags her palm back up the outside of his thigh and pushes the hem of worn flannel up so that she can rest her hand against the protected warmth of his belly. He arches into her touch and murmurs in his sleep, relaxing back against her chest and half-turning his head as if to look over his shoulder at her.

“Mm, but you are not awake, Richard,” Camille says gently against his shoulder as he subsides back into loose-limbed slumber under her arm. If she lifts her head, reluctantly, and peers over Richard’s shoulder she can see the green glow of the alarm clock on his nightstand. It reads 6:23; the alarm Richard set last night will go off in seven minutes. To give them time to wash and dress and grab a coffee and croissant before riding the Tube back to New Scotland Yard.

Given when they had finally drifted off into post-coital sleep the night before -- more accurately in the early morning hours of today, Camille thinks with an inward groan -- the day stretches out, agonizingly scheduled, before them. Fate mocking her, no doubt, for all of the days on Saint Marie when she was so eager to spend the day working side-by-side with Richard; so eager that she would turn up on his doorstep with a coffee and beignet while he was still in the shower.

At the time, she would have admitted to no one but herself that sitting on the porch steps, listening to water sluicing over his naked body, was often a high point in her day.

Her colleagues will, no doubt, soon be rising in the hotel near Heathrow. When the booking had been made, several weeks previous, she had told them -- impulsively -- that she would be staying with friends in the city. She had told herself, then, that she would call Richard ahead of time. It was only polite, to give him time to -- to _what_ , though? that was the question. She had already given him time, back on Saint Marie, much to her mother’s exasperation. _He doesn’t appreciate being pushed, Maman!_ , she remembers shouting at one point when Catherine had made a particularly pointed remark. _I think it is you who has never liked being pushed_ , Catherine had tartly rejoined. _Just because I tell you what I see you think I am pushing you toward him. I am your mother, and I know when I am pushing. With Richard, I don’t have to push you at all._

And Camille had known that her mother was right, but hadn’t wanted to admit it because she never wanted to admit her mother was right. And anyway, she had told herself, it was foolish to want him. To want Richard, who didn’t like Saint Marie. Richard, who was her _boss_. It would never have worked. Best to let his reticence stand between them.

Best to continue letting those five minutes on his porch steps, a fresh cup of coffee in her hand, remain the highlight of her day.

She’d known less than a month after Richard’s return to London that this had been a mistake.

 _Dearest Camille_ , Richard’s email had arrived in her Inbox three weeks after his departure. It had been a chatty email, full of the dry wit and observation she loved in him: the return to his beloved flat; the office he’d been assigned, with the temperamental radiator; the colleague whose taste in tea offended Richard’s sensibilities; the pâtisserie that had opened near the Tube station from which he commuted each morning to work.

 _If you ever find yourself in London…_ he had written. _It would be my pleasure to…_

 _Your friend_ , he had signed it, and then -- as if she might need his last name to place him -- _Richard Poole_.

Three days after she had replied: _Dear Richard, We miss you here on Saint Marie_. It was safer to speak collectively, to let him imagine she was only referring to the way, when she and Fidel and Dwayne went for drinks at the end of the day, they raised a glass toward the fourth, empty, chair. The way his desk stood as he had left it at the station, none of them willing to be the first to disturb a piece of paper. The way they were all waiting for him to change his mind and return.

 _I miss you every day_ , she typed out, the cursor blinking innocently at her while she paused at the end of the phrase. This was more dangerous. _I miss our morning coffees together. I should like very much to visit your pâtisserie._ And before she could second-guess herself: _With love, Camille._

An hour after she had clicked send, the Commissioner had walked into the office with the offer of a year’s advanced training with the Sûreté Nationale in Paris.

She had said yes.

Richard had never written back.

_I miss you..._

_I miss you…_

_I miss you more than I ever thought I could._

Outside the windows of Richard’s flat the rain is blowing in uneven gusts, throwing raindrops hard against the glass. How many times had she imagined such a morning on Saint Marie, rain pounding the sand outside Richard’s cottage as the two of them lay tangled together on his bed listening to the storm? Perhaps she could grow to like England, after all. Especially if the beignets are as good as promised.

Quietly, Camille slips out from under the duvet and retreats to the toilet. The air in Richard’s second-floor walk-up is cold and she steals Richard’s terrycloth robe from its hook behind the door to wrap around herself.

“You’ll want to turn the heat on,” Richard calls from the bedroom. “The switch on the left, next to the sink.” She wonders how long he has been awake, breathing with her, listening to the rain.

Camille gets it wrong on the first try, turning on the row of lights above the mirror, then guesses correctly and flips the switch. Above her in the narrow closet of a room, a ceiling fan hums to life, warm air descending against the chill of the early morning.

She returns to the bedroom and pauses by the window to pull back the curtain and look out. It had been dark, the previous evening, by the time they returned to Richard’s from the pub. She remembers the narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, the second, the stark ceiling lights in the hall. The way Richard had said nothing but gripped her hand with resolution. The bedroom window looks out onto the narrow, uneven paving of a back alleyway lined with dustbins, the corner of a very English square of cropped grass crossed by a neat, flower-edged walk.

“Come back to bed, Camille?” Richard asks, just as the alarm clicks on and the clipped English of the BBC news reader filters in under the sound of the gale outside.

Richard makes a pained noise at the sound, rolling away from the alarm clock and the storm-muted daylight Camille has let into the room.

“I seem to remember,” Camille says, crossing over to the bed and sitting down, “something about a pâtisserie?”

Richard rolls back toward her. “I had thought of a rather more...picturesque introduction, to be honest,” he admits. “It was supposed to be one of those perfect English days -- the sun out, the spring flowers blooming, the birds --”

“--it is October, Richard,” Camille says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, well,” he says, apologetically, pushing himself up on his elbows. “It was May when I first thought of -- well. Inviting you.” He has the good sense to flush.

She leans forward to kiss him, because she can. He opens his mouth beneath hers and she smiles against his lips, teasing the curve of his lower lip with her tongue. “Mmm. My mother was right,” Camille goads between kisses, “you _did_ need a push.”

“I must protest --” Richard says, sitting forward to put his hands firmly on Camille’s hips in a most encouraging manner, “-- to the introduction of Catherine, as wise as your mother undoubtedly is, to this conversation.”

“Oh?” Camille teases, “And what conversation is that?”

Instead of answering, Richard lets himself fall back against the pillows, tugging at her to join him. And Camille lets him get away with avoiding an answer because being here in his bed this morning seems answer enough, for now.

She clambers awkwardly, in his too-long robe, over Richard’s legs so that she can kneel above him. His fingers dig reflexively into her hips to steady her, then slide up from hips to breasts, cradling the weight of them in his palms as she leans down to capture his bottom lip lightly between her teeth. As he had the night before, Richard _hmms_ in pleasure at the sharp pressure, lifting his hips up beneath her to push in closer.

A not-inconsiderable part of Camille wants to suggest they call in sick to their colleagues, spend the day cocooned in his bed while the world goes on without them. But with such a small group their absence will be not be overlooked. As it is, there will be _looks_ from Joly, at least, when she and Richard arrive together. She had seen Joly’s considering gaze at lunch the day before, flickering between Richard and Camille as they reminisced about Saint Marie for the amusement of himself and Gustave -- keeping the topic of conversation firmly on the job but nevertheless (she is aware) giving far more away than Richard, at least, seems to understand. Perhaps everyone in England is as slow about these matters as Richard -- perhaps what she has assumed all along is an endearing particularity is, in fact, a national fault. Either way, Gustave and Joly will surmise immediately that something between them has changed…and if they’re late for--

Richard fumbles blindly, to his left, at the nightstand and the radio abruptly shuts off.

“Richard--” Camille begins, fully intending to remind him that their conference call with the EU minister is scheduled for nine o’clock sharp. But Richard just says, “We’ll take a cab,” and she lets him because Richard is Richard and if he says they’ll arrive in time she knows they will.

The night before had been a blur of exhaustion and Guinness and the exhilaration of finally letting herself say _yes_ and _this_ and _please, Richard, now_. Of pulling him down onto his neatly-made bed and watching him watch her as she unbuttoned his shirt, unbuckled his belt, unlaced his shoes. Listening to him say _yes_ , and _this_ , and _please, Camille, please._

This morning is both slower and hastier -- the hum of the heater in the bathroom, the glare of the clock, the daylight outside all reminding them they have no time to spare. And yet the urgency of the night before has given way to mutual certainty that this is neither the first time, nor the last, that they will see and touch one another this way. Richard pushes his robe off Camille’s shoulders, then tugs the borrowed shirt over her head.

“Why did I let you put any clothes on last night,” Richard muses, tossing the shirt aside and skimming his hands up her bare arms, tugging her down and forward until he can press kisses against her areola as they tighten in reaction to the cold and the path of his tongue on her skin.

“I could ask the same of you,” Camille teases, pulling back and dragging her hands down his pyjama-clad chest. She pulls her hands all the way down to where the bottom button of his shirt has rucked up, just above the dark curls of her fur as she straddles him. She feels his gaze on her as she moves. She hopes Richard can see in her expression how long she has wanted him like this, beneath her, how beautiful he is to her: sleep-tousled and not yet awake enough to stop himself from wanting.

Rocking her pelvis deliberately forward, she reverses the motion and pushes her hands back up to the first button below his collar. She works her way down one button at a time until her fingers find the drawstring at his waist and her wrists brush against her own curls as she moves. She pushes his shirt front open and smooths her palms up through the light, curling hairs on his chest. Echoing his lips against her breast, she bends to kiss each of his nipples in turn and notes the sharp intake of breath a slight graze of teeth elicits.

She can feel him, heavy and warm beneath her spread legs, can feel her own body responding to each movement with a gathering, tightening warmth of its own. She lets the restlessness in her hips drag her in toward him. She pushes her ass down against Richard, who whimpers in response and presses welcome teeth into her shoulder to muffle the sound.

She doesn’t want him to quiet himself for her. He’s been quiet too long.

Holding him still with her hips and thighs, Camille pulls back and finds Richard’s hands at his sides where he’s clutched at the duvet with white-knuckled fingers. Watching his face, she gently opens his fists and takes a hand in each of her own, interlacing their fingers palm-to-palm so she can lean forward and push his arms up over his head into the pillows.

Something passes behind Richard’s eyes that tells her she hasn’t misjudged in the least. He lifts his hips, once, twice, shifts his shoulders in the echo of protest. She pushes herself down against him, again, thumbs caressing the bones of his wrist in a question.

She feels his body relax underneath her, sees the always-present tension leave the muscles of his shoulders and throat, knows she’s read him right.

“Bon?” she asks, “Good?” Just to be sure.

“Good,” he whispers back, eyes never leaving her face in the half light of the storm-lit morning. “God, Camille, you don’t know how long I’ve --”

“It is a good thing, then, that I accepted the invitation you did not send?” She keeps their hands clasped above his head, leaning over to press a line of kisses across his forehead, his eyelids, seeking out his mouth.

“Yes,” is all he says, in response, so softly that she feels it more than hears it.

“Touch me, Richard,” is what she finds herself saying next, almost a sob against his shoulder. “ _Please_.”

There’s an awkward, breathless, shifting of weight and limbs as Richard pulls his right hand free and rolls them over so Camille is facing him against the pillows. She buries her face into the scent of him at the crook of his neck and hooks her right knee over his thigh.

“Here --” she begins, starting to push her free hand between them. But clever Richard has already figured out what she’s after and is pushing his palm down through damp curls, circling her clit with sure fingers, pushing two fingers and then three deep inside, anchoring her with his thumb pressed alongside the hard line of her clit where she can rock against him once, twice, three times. She lets herself fall into the rhythm of her body, his hand, listens to the way he breathes close against her ear, slightly ragged, murmuring nonsense words of encouragement.

Camille wants, in that moment, to stay right on this edge for the rest of the day, the week, forever, the two of them tumbled together too close for awkwardness, too close for silences, while the rain and wind blows down around them.

But then, of course, as soon as she thinks -- as she always does -- _please, let me stay here forever_ \-- an orgasm is pulling up through her, strong and sure against Richard’s relentlessly gentle hands.

In the flat above them, a tenant turns on the shower.

In the hall below, a door slams.

A particularly hard gust of wind throws rain against the window pane.

 _Condoms_ , she thinks -- or perhaps says, aloud -- as her orgasm passes. There’s a box on Richard’s nightstand, along with a bottle of lube, because Camille had come prepared. It had turned out that Richard had his own supplies, including several items that Camille felt they would have to revisit at some point in the near future. But still -- her condoms had been put to good use and the box left within easy reach.

If only her limbs would respond to simple commands…

“It’s all right,” Richard is saying over the ringing in her ears -- which probably means she’s said condoms aloud. The thought makes her giggle and once she’s begun giggling she doesn’t seem able to stop. “It’s all right,” he repeats, “just -- Camille?”

“ _Mmm_ ,” Camille agrees, broadly, untangling her right hand from the rumpled duvet to pat him clumsily on the shoulder. She shifts closer with heavy limbs, and feels as well as hears his sharp intake of breath as she rocks against him. “You were saying?”

He presses his forehead into her shoulder, mumbling so quietly she almost doesn’t hear the admission -- “Sometimes, hands are just as nice” -- but doesn’t need to ask him to repeat himself. Because Richard is fumbling between them with the drawstrings of his pyjama bottoms and pulling her hand down to where he wants it.

She’s always approved of the way Richard takes decisive action.

He’s warm, so warm, soft-hard, and damp from sweat and other fluids. Camille feels him move against the heel of her hand, hips restless, hears his breath falter. She closes her fingers a little tighter and hears his breath change again. She _hmms_ encouragingly and shifts again, pushing herself up on one elbow and encouraging Richard to roll back against the pillows so she can watch his face as she works her hand in a steady rhythm.

The loose grip he had kept on her wrist falls away, hand groping for a knot of bedclothes as his eyes flutter closed and his breathing deepens. She’d noticed the night before how, just before orgasm, Richard grew quiet, almost silent, and still. The look that stole over his face reminded her of the focused concentration that overtook him when he was a hairsbreadth away from solving a case -- and now she knows she will never see him standing before a room full of suspects without picturing him like this: restless and reaching and full of trust beneath her hands.

He comes hard, and silently, tight and hot in her hand followed by a contained collapse against her shoulder and chest. They lie unmoving for several long minutes before Camille’s wrist begins to ache and she needs to pull sticky fingers free. Richard mumbles in vague protest, but settles against her side when she wipes her hand on the nearest fold of sheet and reaches back to drag him closer. His bare chest is warm against her rib cage, left hand proprietorially over her right breast, his cheek pressed familiarly against her left. She’s never had a lover who fit into the curve of her shoulder and arm quite this well, Camille thinks.

Just as Camille’s about to drift back off to sleep, Richard clears his throat.

“Um,” he begins, “we’d probably -- that is, would you like the first shower?”

Camille considers for a beat, then two, of his heart before asking, “Shall we not take one together?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the same line in [Coriolanus](http://www.bartleby.com/70/3642.html) as Crowgirl's _Bid Them All Home_.


End file.
